


Flowerfire: Winter's End

by glass_icarus



Category: Fionavar Tapestry - Kay
Genre: Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glass_icarus/pseuds/glass_icarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loren and Matt, post-series. [G]</p><p>A/N: Written for Taelle in the Yuletide 2007 challenge. Thanks to C. for the beta, and to Taelle for the wonderful prompt! Happy holidays!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowerfire: Winter's End

Loren dismounts at the top of the hill, shading his eyes against the sun. The lake below gleams blue and jewel-bright beside the newly-thatched cottage, framed in the last of the melting snow.

Jaelle opens the door before he knocks, a gracious smile on her once-bitter features. "Silvercloak! Welcome."

Matt Sören, standing stolidly at Loren's elbow with an armful of flowers, lifts a sardonic eyebrow. "I didn't know you were expecting us."

"Leila," Jaelle replies. "She sends her greetings, and apologizes that she couldn't meet you."

"Ah."

"Come in. Paul will be back shortly. He's out in the woods at the moment."

\--

The hardest thing, or one of the hardest, is to reach into that secret place within their minds, only to find it empty. The loss of their bond since Cader Sedat is keenly felt, if never spoken, and it is particularly difficult in the days following Kimberly and Dave's departure.

"That was... more difficult than I expected," Matt says one evening, following Tabor's afternoon lessons. Loren sighs, closing the door to their chamber.

"I know. Teyrnon and Barak would have done it, but Aileron called them south."

Matt grunts in reply, taking his cloak from him without being asked. Loren smiles tiredly, dropping into a chair.

"At least he grasped it quickly."

Matt snorts. "He's Ivor's child; of course he did."

"You know what I mean, my friend."

A small silence stretches between them, not entirely uncomfortable. Loren's eyes are steady on the Dwarf King's face, and after a time, he is rewarded with a half-grimace. "Do you miss it?" Matt's voice is soft, uncertain.

"Brennin? Of course." Loren takes a breath, exhales slowly. "It's still- home."

"You know you don't always have to-"

Loren huffs in exasperation, fixing him with a glare. "Dear heart, if you still don't know, after forty-odd years, that my place is at your side-"

"Peace, Loren, enough!" Matt barks a laugh. "I do know it, my friend; I just thought I would make the offer. It would be good to stay awhile."

"It would." Loren's voice is more wistful than he knows. Matt ducks his head to hide a smile, kneeling to remove Loren's boots.

"Then let us stay. The Dwarves have no pressing business, and Brock is more than capable of handling the administrative end anyway."

Even Matt Sören's phlegmatic manner cannot withstand the warmth in Loren's eyes at that moment; the mage- still and forever _his_ mage, though the days of their power have long passed- laughs delightedly at his uncharacteristic flush.

\--

"I thought you didn't like horses," Paul Schafer grins teasingly, as he leans down to embrace the Dwarf. "It's good to see you both."

"I don't," Matt grunts. The mage, standing behind him, squeezes his shoulder gently in apology.

"Oh!" Paul straightens, carefully extracting a single flower from his shirt pocket. The sea-colored petals glow luminous against his fingers, the red center burning red as fire. "I found this just now. I had a feeling I'd come across one today."

"Will you join us, then?" Loren asks, turning the proffered stem between his fingers.

Paul shakes his head. "Not this time, my friend. We're due to visit Leila in the Temple this evening. I thought it would be a good offering, that's all."

_Thought. Memory._ In the brief silence that follows, Loren fancies he can almost hear their wingbeats. "Twiceborn," he murmurs, wondering, in a voice so low that only Matt can hear.

Paul Schafer smiles, bittersweet, at the shared memory of a woman's face; clear grey eyes framed by white hair. Or two women, actually, the one within the other, having torn her soul from the Weaver's night in an act that they still, even in the midst of so many other losses, struggle to encompass. "She would want you to have it."

Matt Sören, holding a different face within his heart, accepts it gravely. "Twiceborn," he echoes, an acknowledgement.

\--

Matt still paces their room sometimes, on nights when the moon is full and Aileron has summoned them to Paras Derval: a ritual circumambulation, with steps measured and controlled. More often than not, Loren is awake and silent beneath the sheets, counting the days before they can return to Banir Lök and Banir Tal.

Matt declines to calculate the weight of their collective burdens, and the ceaseless tide of Calor Diman is older than most. Its late revelation, though, means that Loren still feels it keenly.

"Stop brooding," Matt tells him once, the morning after. "That's my job, not yours."

"I-"

"My place is at your side, remember?"

Loren blinks at him, taking in the quirk of his mouth, forty-odd years familiar. He remembers the day when they first returned to Seithr's halls, Matt's declaration upon their arrival: _There is no weaving the Loom could have held to my name that I can imagine to be richer than the one I have known._ "Yes," he says: a reply, an affirmation.

\--

The path to Aideen's grave is little-used, overgrown with greenery and covered with fallen leaves. Only the mages know the way, now; the four of them, Tabor dan Ivor, and Jennifer Lowell, who rests with Arthur and Lancelot somewhere beyond the summer stars. _Heart's ease to be found in this place_, Matt remembers telling her after Dun Maura, on the first day of Kevin Laine's miraculous spring; and it is true. A simple mound with no tombstone, in the shade of the Godwood just beyond.

It is a good place for difficult memories.

Loren kneels beside him as he sets down his armful of flowers, and they weave the stems together in silence, even as their tears fall. The sunlight falls upon their hands, casting shadows as the leaves overhead flutter in the wind, Matt's rough and callused ones working unhurriedly between Loren's long, slender fingers. At the fringes of the forest, the melting snow shines diamond-bright, illuminating their faces.

They rise, after a time, from Aideen's grave, with a brief clasp of hands. Matt smiles- his first true smile since Cader Sedat- and turns toward their horses, Loren following close behind. The hem of his cloak trails over the garland upon the mound: the first snowdrops of the spring, twined with a single bannion flower.


End file.
